_The Prison Without Bars_
No one tried to stop Bram Forest until he reached the very gates of
the amphitheater. But there a guard with drawn whip-sword barred the
way and demanded: "You don't look Nadian to me. What delegation are
you with, man?"
Bram Forest had no time to parry words with words. He tried to push
his way past the guard who, too surprised to thrust with his weapon,
used his free hand to grab Bram Forest by the shoulder and spin him
around. Bram Forest drove his left fist into the guard's belly and
heard the whoosh of air escaping from his lungs.
That was the last thing he heard for some time. A second guard crept
up quietly behind him and struck expertly with the hilt of his
whip-sword just behind the left ear. Bram Forest fell as if the ground
dropped out from under him.
"By all the fiery gods of Tarth, will you look at that!" the first
guard exclaimed.
The second guard could only gawk, not comprehending.
The unconscious man was growing tenuous.
The first guard in confused alarm, lashed down with the whip-sword.
But its point passed through Bram Forest's now transparent body
without meeting any resistance.
"Right through him! Right through him!" cried the guard.
And, by the time he said it, and coiled his sword again, Bram Forest
had vanished.
* * * * *
When an urgent message had come for Retoc, the Princess Volna, alone
in the royal box, had decided to investigate the matter herself. She
had to hurry, though. In not many minutes, Retoc and Bontarc would
find themselves face to face on the sands of the amphitheater.
Wouldn't Bontarc be surprised! Too proud to flee, not swordsman enough
to match the mighty Retoc....
"Yes, yes, what is it?" she snapped irritably when she entered the
dungeon-like ready-room below the amphitheater sands. She was in a
hurry to return to her box, lest she miss the duel between Bontarc and
Retoc. Alone in the ready-room was a soldier in the uniform of Abaria.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am," said the soldier. "My message is for
Retoc of Abaria."
"And I tell you Retoc of Abaria is not here to receive it." Volna
clapped her hands and two of her own guards appeared. "I am the
Princess Volna. Well?"
Pirum looked at her, at the armed guards flanking her on either side,
at the door through which she had entered, at the ready-room's second
door. "Very well," he said at last, and opened the second door,
beckoning.
Volna went to the doorway and looked. She gasped involuntarily, hardly
able to believe her eyes. There on the stone floor of a smaller
ready-room, only now regaining consciousness, was the Virgin Wayfarer
of Ofrid, she who had seen Retoc slay Jlomec, she who had been sent by
Volna herself to sure death on the Journey of No Return. Terror
gripped her.
"What does this mean?" Volna cried. "Where did you find her? Where,
man? Speak!"
"On the river, ladyship."
"On the river? Returning from the Place of the Dead?"
"No, ladyship. Heading toward the Place of the Dead."
Volna went to the girl and stood over her. "You! What's your name?"
"Ylia," the girl said.
"What were you trying to do, Ylia?"
The girl said nothing.
Volna called to Pirum, who came at once. "Hit her," Volna said.
Grasping Ylia by her hair, Pirum struck her face with his open hand.
Her head snapped back. The mark of his fingers was on her face. She
said nothing.
"Hit her again," Volna said.
Pirum struck Ylia a second time. The girl whimpered, but held her
tongue. "Where is your friend, that giant of a man?" Volna asked.
Again Pirum hit Ylia when she would say nothing. Finally Volna
shrugged. "She'll talk, given enough of that. What's _your_ name,
man?"
"Pirum, ladyship."
"Very well, Pirum. My guards and I are returning to our seats. There
is a duel I wouldn't want to miss. All Tarth will reap its
consequences. Meanwhile, stay with this girl and do what you must do
to make her talk. It might be important."
Pirum bowed. "Yes, ladyship," he said, and watched the others depart.
Then, when they were alone, Ylia surprised him by flying at him, nails
bared, like a wildcat. He fought off her attack and struck her a
savage open-handed blow, and she fell back. At least this, Pirum
thought advancing on her, might be an interesting assignment.
* * * * *
"... hit by that cab, mac."
"You all right?"
"He's getting up, ain't he?"
"Jeez, I swear," the sweating taxi driver said to the crowd which had
gathered about the prostrate man, "he popped up outa nowhere. One
second I'm driving along, looking for a fare, the next, he's standing
right in front of me. I almost pushed the brake through the floor,
honest, but--"
"Ylia," the stricken man said.
"Hey now, take it easy."
"What he say, anyhow?"
"... be going to a costume ball or something. Lookit that outfit he's
wearing, willya? What's he supposed to be, a man from Mars or
something? I read in the papers where Mars was pretty close a while
back. My kid thinks there are...."
"Aw, shudap about your kid."
"Need any help, mister?"
"No. No, thank you. I'm all right."
"... got a nasty crack on his head, is all. See? See the blood?"
"He's getting up."
"... a cop. When you don't want 'em, they're around. Now you need
them, where in heck are they, that's what I wanna know."
"The bracelet!" the stricken man said in sudden alarm. He stared at
his own right arm in confusion, then his left. His arms were bare.
"You wasn't wearing no bracelet, mac," someone said.
"No bracelet," he said. "No bracelet." His eyes looked vague,
confused.
After a while a policeman came and took in the situation at a glance.
"All right, all right," he bawled. "Step back and givemair, givemair,
will you?"
The crowd dispersed slowly, and the policeman talked for a while with
the taxi-driver, then with the stricken man.
"My name?" the stricken man said in answer to a question. "Bram
Forest. Yes, Bram Forest. But I don't have the bracelet. The bracelet
is gone, forever. Without the bracelet I can't...." his voice trailed
off.
"He drunk?" the policeman asked the cab driver.
"Search me."
"'A prison without bars,'" the man recited. "Earth is my prison,
forever. Ylia. Ylia!"
The driver made a circular motion with his forefinger, in the general
vicinity of his temple.
"You both better come down the station house with me," the policeman
said.
"Aw, officer, I'll lose some fares."
"Anyhow. The guy talks batty, but he don't look drunk. We got to
figure this here out."
"Ylia," the man said, almost as if the sound were a name and he was
crying out to the owner of that name across an unthinkable abyss.
* * * * *
Bontarc, King of Nadia, felt as good as could be expected under the
circumstances. Now that the first shock of bereavement had passed, he
knew no mourning would bring back his dead brother Jlomec. And the sun
of Tarth was hot on the amphitheater sands as Bontarc stood awaiting
his as yet unknown adversary. He flexed and uncoiled his whip-sword,
smiling in expectancy. He was a competent swordsman, among the dozen
or so best in Nadia. The duel-to-first-blood would be just what he
needed. Win or lose, he'd feel a lot better afterwards. And meanwhile,
he was a king, wasn't he? The adulation of the crowd swept down all
around him, lifting his spirits. The corpse of Prince Jlomec,
treacherously slain, seemed very far away--as, indeed, it was....
A roar of expectancy went up from a hundred thousand throats as
Bontarc's adversary appeared at the other end of the arena. The sun
was dazzling. At first Bontarc saw the swordsman only as a dot across
the gleaming sands. But now the roar of expectancy had turned to a
groan of dismay, which was followed by a silence, as of death, then an
eager whispered buzzing. Why should this be? Why....
The figure came closer on the burning sands. Bontarc squinted. Was it
possible? He felt a tremor go through his body.
It was Retoc of Abaria!
"To the death, Bontarc," Retoc said softly, savagely, as they
approached.
Bontarc shook his head imperceptibly. He was no coward, but knew he
was no match for Retoc and didn't see why he should lay down his life
on the amphitheater sands. "I'll not fight you to the death, Retoc of
Abaria," he said.
Retoc shrugged as if it weren't very important. "Well," he said
slowly, "if you don't want to kill the slayer of your brother...."
Bontarc charged.
Laughing, Retoc was ready for him.
* * * * *
"... Please ... please ... you're just wasting your time. I ... won't ...
tell you."
"No?" Pirum said, panting. He saw the girl through a haze of anger,
frustration, and desire. She was naked, her lips were bloody, but her
eyes still flashed defiance. Pirum, like most Abarians, was something
of a sadist.
"Oh, you'll talk," he said. "You'll talk."
"... never...."
He dug his strong finger cruelly into her tender body.
"Bram Forest...." she cried.
* * * * *
The policeman behind the desk was saying things. Bram Forest heard the
droning voice, but not the words. Ylia, he thought. Ylia. A moment
before, he actually believed he heard her cry out to him in pain. But
that couldn't be. Besides, what could he do about it? He was trapped
forever on Earth, without the bracelet which could send him, almost on
the wings of thought, back to Tarth, to Ylia, to his destiny.
_I love you, girl of Tarth, he thought. I love you, Ylia, more than
words and more than worlds._
Something whisperingly cold plucked at him, and for an instant his
heart was stilled.
_Ylia!_
Could his love for the girl of Tarth draw him across the unthinkable
abyss?
"... immodestly attired and ..." the desk sergeant was saying.
_Ylia, Ylia, call me! Draw me to you, girl of Tarth._
_... bramforesthelp...._
_Ylia! I hear you! I hear you!_
"What the heck's he doing? Praying?" the patrolman asked.
For Bram Forest was staring devoutly at nothing, staring at the air in
front of his face there in the mundane precinct room as if it held a
radiant vision.
Suddenly the desk sergeant's jaw dropped open. The patrolman said:
"Hey, wait a mo...."
Bram Forest was becoming tenuous, vanishing.
* * * * *
Insubstantial, transparent, the image of Bram Forest soared past the
encampment of the Golden Apes. "Bylanus!" he called, and his voice was
not insubstantial. Bylanus came at once.
"If the Abarian legions move, attack them, Bylanus."
"As you will, Bram Forest. But you...."
"Don't worry about me. I can control it, I can control it."
Bylanus passed an enormous hand through Bram Forest's body.
"I'll materialize, when I find Ylia. She draws me...." Already the
vision was fading.
"Farewell, Bram Forest."
_Farewell...._
Was it merely the sound of the wind along the banks of the River of
Ice? Bylanus wondered.
* * * * *
Something struck Pirum's shoulder. The girl crouched, sobbing, at his
feet. Pirum whirled.
His face went white when he saw the man. He swung his fist
desperately, and the man blocked it without effort. His arm was
caught, as in a vise. He screamed. Something snapped in his arm.
Something streaked at his face....
He took the blow from Bram Forest's fist under the point of the jaw.
His head snapped back against the dungeon wall and memory and desire
and lust and life oozed out through his smashed skull.
"Ylia!"
"You came, Bram Forest."
"I'll never leave you again."
"Yes, now, in the amphitheater. I think...."
Overhead, the crowd roared. Bram Forest listened for a fraction of a
second, and raced for the stairs.
When word of the duel between Bontarc and Retoc came by courier to
Laugrim, second in command of the Abarian army under the missing
Hultax, Laugrim decided it was time to attack. He gave the signal for
his army to march on the city, and the signal was passed from
signal-fire to signal-fire in the huge encampment. In a very short
time, the army's vanguard began to march. _There's no force on all
Tarth strong enough to stop us now_, Laugrim thought exultantly. _This
day, Retoc would rule Tarth._
He was right. There was no Tarthian army strong enough to stop them.
But the Army of the Golden Apes which, after Bram Forest's warning,
had deployed itself at the very gates of Nadia City so the people in
the amphitheater might witness the battle, was not of Tarth....
* * * * *
"Well, Bontarc," cried Retoc, "can't you do better than that? Surely a
king...."
For many minutes now Retoc, the finest swordsman on Tarth, had been
toying with his adversary. He could have killed Bontarc a dozen times
over, but he waited, driving the Nadian ruler back, playing with him,
making him do incredible gymnastics in order to survive, three times
returning his whip-sword to him when it had been torn from the
Nadian's hands.
All Nadia--and all the rulers of Tarth--watched spellbound. It seemed
to them that the Nadian ruler had gone into the contest willingly.
They made no move, and under the ethics that governed their world,
would make no move, to stop the uneven contest.
Retoc's blurring sword-point whipped and flashed, drawing blood from a
dozen superficial wounds. The smile never left Retoc's face.
Desperately, knowing his life was forfeit whenever Retoc chose,
Bontarc parried the whip-lashing blade.
* * * * *
Bram Forest emerged into the dazzling sunlight of the arena floor.
Squinting, he saw the figures across the sand.
The men before him were Bontarc of Nadia and Retoc, slayer of his
mother, destroyer of Ofridia.
Retoc saw him first, and cried out exultantly. His wrist blurred, his
whip-sword flashed, the point singing, and Bontarc's sword flew from
his fingers. "You!" Retoc cried.
The sword-point had slashed an artery on Bontarc's wrist. The blood
spurted out and Bontarc stood there, dazed, holding the wound shut
with his left hand.
"Are you all right, sire?" Bram Forest asked.
"I can manage until a doctor binds--"
* * * * *
Bram Forest picked up the Nadian ruler's whip-sword and faced his
enemy, sword to sword, at last.
Retoc looked at him, and laughed. "I almost killed you once," he said.
His hand barely seemed to move, but the point of his blade, whipping,
flashing, was everywhere. Bram Forest parried desperately. "I'll
finish the job now," Retoc vowed.
Then Bram Forest did an unexpected thing. He used the whip-sword not
as a sword: he couldn't hope to match Retoc's skill as a swordsman. He
used it as a whip is used, his great arm slicing back and forth
through air, up over his head and down, the long length of the
uncoiled blading whipping and darting like something alive across the
sands.
Retoc retreated two steps, and lunged with what he hoped would be a
death blow.
Prokliam the seneschal was trembling so much he could hardly stand.
Just outside the amphitheater, in the very shadow of the amphitheater
wall, the great Golden Apes of legend had materialized. There were
thousands of them, and they were three times the size of men, and
methodically and with great ease, they were destroying the Abarian
army before it could enter the amphitheater.
Without the Abarian army, Volna and Retoc would never subjugate Nadia,
never rule Tarth. But Prokliam the seneschal had committed himself to
their cause. Now only death awaited him.
Or, had he committed himself? Couldn't he change sides before it was
too late? Couldn't he slay Volna, here in the royal box, for all to
see? Couldn't he become a hero of the people? He was confused. He
wished he could think clearly, but he was more frightened than he had
ever been in his life. There was something wrong with his logic.
Something.... Well, no matter. Slay Volna first, call her traitor, and
then worry about his logic--
He turned away from the wall and marched down the flights of stairs
between the citizens of Nadia, flanked in two wildly shouting mobs on
either side of the aisle, and plunged a knife into Volna's back,
killing her instantly.
The people roared, and rose up. Like a tide they swept toward
Prokliam, the seneschal who had wanted to be prime minister.
"No, no!" he cried. "No, please. You don't understand. ... I see it now ...
what was wrong with my thinking ... you don't know yet ... you don't
know ... to you she was still the Princess Volna, loyal, true ... you
don't understand, please."
The wave rolled over Prokliam the seneschal, leaving him battered and
bloody and dead in its wake.
* * * * *
The strong, whipping motion of Bram Forest's arm made a wall of steel
of his whip-sword. Try as he might, with all the skill at his command,
Retoc could not dent that wall. But, he thought, there was another
way. Slowly, desperately, he maneuvered Bram Forest back toward
Bontarc, who was sitting in the sand and using all his remaining
energy to hold the life blood in his veins, his fingers clamped,
vise-like, about his own arm.
Bram Forest's arm blurred up, down, to either side. He wove a web of
death. It was brawn against skill, he knew--and the strength of his
arm might win! Retoc was sweating. Retoc was not the cool swordsman he
had been moments before. Desperately, Retoc sought an opening, and
found none. True, his superior footwork was forcing Bram Forest back
across the sand, but what did that matter? Last time they dueled he
had made the mistake of meeting Retoc on his own grounds as greatest
swordsman of Tarth. This time....
His legs caught against something. He fell heavily.
Retoc's sword-point flashed down.
Bram Forest rolled over, stood up with sand blinding his eyes. For
precious moments he could see nothing but could only spin with the
whip-sword; slashing air in all directions, hoping Retoc couldn't
strike through the wall of steel.
Then, slowly, vision returned to his stinging eyes. Bontarc lay
stretched out on the sand now, unconscious, the blood pumping from his
severed artery. If he bled like that for more than a few moments, he
would die. If he died, and if Nadia rose in its wrath against Abaria,
then all that Bram Forest had dreamed of, not revenge against Abaria
for a wrong done, but eternal peace on Tarth, would be lost....
He took the offensive, weaving his wall of steel toward Retoc. The
Abarian thrust his own sword, and withdrew it, and parried, and lunged
and thrust again. The wall of steel which was Bram Forest's singing
blade advanced relentlessly.
Round and round his head, Bram Forest whirled the whip-sword. Retoc
could--just--block the motion, the death-laden circle, with his own
blade. He became accustomed to it. He used all his effort, all his
skill to block it.
Then, abruptly, Bram Forest raised his sword-arm and brought it down
from high over his head.
Retoc screamed.
And died screaming, his head and torso split from crown to navel.
Bram Forest rushed to Bontarc, stretched out on the sand, and with his
own hand stemmed the bleeding.
Bylanus the Golden Ape said: "All Tarth is yours to command if you
wish it, Bram Forest."
"No, Bylanus. Take your people back to your world and live in peace.
We of Tarth thank you."
Bylanus smiled. "I thought you would say that."
"Portox was a great scientist," Bram Forest said. "But he thought too
much of revenge. The ancient wrong is righted."
"Then you'll spare Abaria?" gasped the delegate of the assembled
Tarthian nobles, who had come to the meeting called by Bylanus that
night.
"My fight was with Retoc and the Abarian army. Retoc is dead, the army
decimated and disbanded. My fight with Abaria is over."
"Then what will you do?"
Bram Forest took Ylia's hand. "I'd like to see a great nation rise
again on the Plains of Ofrid."
Bontarc, his arm bandaged, said: "My people will help you build. And,
with your wayfarers as a nucleus maid Ylia...."
"It will be a small nation at first," Ylia said.
"It will grow, so long as Tarth knows peace," Bontarc told her.
"Tarth will know nothing but peace from now on," Bram Forest promised.
It was a promise which he knew all of them would keep.
THE END
* * * * *